Ford—Tom Ford

Do I need a glass of Champagne at 10:15am? Well, no, but it's nice to be offered one, especially by a white-gloved waiter. Tom Ford cultivates the good life the way the rest of us obsess over Obama's reforms and the U.S. Open leaderboard (okay, maybe the latter is just my obsession). When we arrived at his Milan showroom—a windowless tomb of luxury (gun-metal-gray velvet sofas, chocolate-brown shearling rungs, lighting kept at a muted, smokey hum), there was Tom, personally arranging and tidying up the suits and ties. Plenty of color in the spring line—sorbetto-hued tux jackets and bold, printed, Elvis-style swimtrunks. All in limited-edition patterns and materials. Amazingly lux. Also loved the new slimmer, shorter-cut pants to complement the broad-lapeled suit jackets. Kind of early-'70s meets mid-'60s, like George Lazenby as Bond in On Her Majesty's Secret Service (by far, the most underrated Bond, if you're keeping score). And then there's the accessories room, which is like a leather humidor—shelves and shelves of preposterously beautiful handmade laceups (like the crocodile-skin ones pictured above), loafers, and riding boots; briefcases, duffels, and portfolios. It's all incredibly intoxicating, even without the Champagne.